


Looks On Tempests

by britomart_is



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday, Boys In Love, Curtain Fic, Dean Winchester Loves Sam Winchester, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Future Fic, Happy Ending, M/M, Old Age, Older Characters, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Sam-Centric, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7454374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britomart_is/pseuds/britomart_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy birthday, Sam Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looks On Tempests

This is how Sam spends his birthday:

Everything hurts. Seriously, _everything_. And it's fucking cold. And if Sam sees another bowl of oatmeal, he's going to break something.

Possibly his hip.

"It's good for your heart." The chair next to Sam creaks with the weight of a person. Sam grumbles. Then coughs. 

A spoonful of brown sugar plops onto the grayish mush. 

"Here. Only because it's your birthday."

"Can't believe I have to spend it with an ugly old coot like you," Sam says. 

Another spoonful of sugar. Sam looks up. Dean is beaming. God damn it. Dean's got these lines around his eyes, see? Sam's mouth twitches. It's not a smile. Probably a spasm or something. 

Somehow Dean has more smile lines than sad and weary ones—somehow.

Dean's knee is against Sam's. The unbeautiful wooden kitchen table that wobbles because Dean didn't quite match up the legs—it was one of Dean's early projects, before he gave in to things like measuring—is too small. They're always in each other's space, close enough so Dean can (and does) eat off Sam's plate. Smaller than a table should be. 

Dean claims it was an accident. 

"We'll go to the diner for lunch. If we hold hands that cute little blond number might give me free pie." 

Cindy is their regular waitress. She thinks they're adorable. "You know she thinks you're a harmless old codger."

The mischievous leer drops off Dean's face. "Harmless," he says. "Not what you were saying last night."

Actually, Sam didn't say anything last night. Sometimes words are unnecessary. Panting breath, shifting positions, soothing aches, so familiar by now but always like the first time.

Sam changes the subject. "Don't I get pie?" Dean is a goddamn tyrant about Sam's blood sugar. 

"I'll get you a bran muffin. With a candle in it," Dean says.

"Just one?"

"Don't wanna burn the place down."

"Fine. If I don't get pie you're taking the walker." The look on Dean's face makes Sam laugh till he's overcome with coughing.

#

Dean doesn't take the walker, which has been collecting dust in the back of a closet since the hospital sent them home with it. Dean strides along on his bum leg that he tells people he got in the war (so he's not quite lying, because what they fought was a war if there ever was one), slower than he once was. 

Dean grabs Sam's hand before they go through the door, gives him a peck on the cheek when they get inside. That's for pie á la mode. 

Cindy's face always lights up when they come in. "Good morning, gentlemen." 

Yeah, yeah, so it's still the morning. Early bird special, all right? It's just practical. Economical. 

They always get the corner booth. Reserved for Misters Winchester and Winchester.

When they first got into town, there was the question—who took whose name—and Dean was a little quicker off the draw, said Sam did. Sam pinched the delicate skin of Dean's wrist, smiled at their neighbor. Fucked Dean into the mattress that night. 

Now Dean — _Mister_ Winchester — gazes longingly at the heart-attack-on-a-plate section of the menu. 

"Dean."

"What?"

"No." 

Dean looks like a toddler denied his chocolate milk. Sam captures Dean's knee between his legs beneath the table. Knocks it back and forth, rocks. Smiles. Dean tries to maintain his expression and fails. 

Cindy's waiting patiently with her notepad. Dean sighs. "I'll have the usual, sweetheart."

They've never been much for small talk. The debate over Latin versus Sumerian purification rites pauses when their food arrives, and then Dean's arguing through his sandwich. His mouth is full. It's pretty gross. 

It's all academic now, anyway. In his more restless moments, Sam almost misses the demons. Almost. He was never like Dean—the man practically gnawed his own foot off the first time they signed a lease. Nothing left to fight, so he fought with Sam instead. 

It pissed Sam off. So Sam kissed him.

And several hours, one broken coffee table, two neighbors banging on the walls, three bruises and about a hundred "God, _Sammy_ " gasps later, Dean had something new to live for.

Dean's finished his sandwich. He raises an eyebrow at Sam. "What are you smiling for?"

Sam just grins at Dean. 

The tips of Dean's ears go pink. "Don't know where I went wrong raising you," he mutters. He steals the pickle off Sam's plate.

 

Dean gets his pie (indeed, á la mode.) Sam gets sugar-free ice cream, which is disgusting, but he always smiles at Cindy anyway. 

Sam glowers at Dean, though. Dean looks smug. Pushes his own fork at Sam. 

" _Only_ today." 

Like Sam said. A tyrant. 

They trade the fork back and forth, and Cindy's probably about to faint. 

 

It's early afternoon by the time they're back home. Squeaky floorboards, patched roof, chaotic yard full of weeds, the name Winchester painted on the mailbox in Dean's chicken scratch. And it's theirs, theirs to keep. 

Dean collapses into bed with a groan. 

Dean Winchester does not nap, you see. He simply lies down in bed or on the couch or sits in a chair on the porch, and rests his eyes. He refuels. He powers up. He doesn't nap. 

Sam doesn't nap either, because he's busy watching Dean. Dean's eyes shut and he relaxes into the pillows and Sam takes a moment to stand and look. Sees the indent in his own pillow on the left. The book on his nightstand. The reading glasses on Dean's. Knows there's a freshly sharpened knife in the bedside drawer, but that's not important. 

So Sam crawls into bed. Lies on his side and looks at Dean. Handsomest man Sam ever saw, and Sam's still cursing the one night he got drunk enough to tell Dean so. Still true, though. 

"You're staring at me," Dean says, eyes still closed. Not asleep, then. 

"Mm-hmm." 

"Creepy fucker. Jerkin' off over me. Can't help yourself, I guess." There's a little of that Dean smile, the one that always makes Sam's pulse pound whether Dean's infuriating him or charming him or best of all, just happy. 

"In your dreams, old man." 

Dean smiles a little more. Knows how Sam loves saying that.

Old man, old man. Dean is an old man. So many, many years. In surprise and gratitude and celebration, Sam says it every chance he gets: old man.

Dean's arm pulls Sam in, no embrace but a headlock. Still big brother. Sam rests a hand on Dean's hip. Listens to his heartbeat. 

"Happy birthday, geezer."


End file.
